


Cold Hands

by axed_Arrangement



Category: Town of Salem (Video Game)
Genre: Brief mentions of other characters - Freeform, Corpses, F/F, reanimating corpses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:08:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28392183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/axed_Arrangement/pseuds/axed_Arrangement
Summary: The medium has cold hands. The necromancer's are even colder.
Relationships: Medium/Necromancer (Town of Salem)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Cold Hands

The necromancer’s hands are always cold to the touch, as if they’re deprived of the warmth of life. Even when held against a flame or wrapped around the Coven leader’s warm drinks they remain icy, despite sapping up their warmth. She gets remarks about it when she accidentally brushes them against a town member while buying spices, the unnatural coolness startling them. It doesn’t bother her, she hardly ever notices it most of the time. 

Her own skin is pale and sickly, a web of blue veins clearly visible on her hands. Dark eyebags hang under her eyes. Dirt is stuck under her short and bitten nails, the shine of her black nail polish dulled by contact with decomposing bodies. The medium tells her she resembles a corpse sometimes, running her hands through the coven member’s disheveled hair. The necromancer lets out a coarse laugh at her remark. She’s been around the dead too long to resemble the living anymore. 

The medium’s hands are cold, the whispers of the dead running through her fingers like sand. The dead are never silent. Their words echo in the wind. Their voices ring loud in the silence of the night. Their apparitions appear briefly in reflections of mirrors and through dusty windows. Anyone can see the dead if they observe enough, the medium simply has the ability to directly commune with them. 

Her hair is braided messily, unruly strands of dark hair sticking out. The occasional grey strand of hair captures the sunlight and shines. Beaded bracelets cover her thinning arms. Although appearing happy and healthy, her eyes are embellished with dark circles and the light in them faded from countless nights without rest. It’s never silent in her world, the dead never leave her alone to sleep. 

Her hands are cold, but to the necromancer they feel like the sun on a summer day, warmer than anything she had felt. Where the medium sees a flaw, the necromancer sees a trait worth her adoration. When she doesn’t have the energy to speak, she merely rests against the medium, her warmth blanketing her from the world around them. When she wraps her cold hands around the sleepy necromancer’s own frigid ones, she finally notices the hidden warmth in hers, tightening her grip in hopes of warming the coven member.

She laughs at the stiff and irregular motions of the undead she controls, while the medium’s headaches exponentially worsen from the pained shrieks and cries of the corpse’s ghost. The medium can’t help but feel sick in her stomach every time the necromancer reanimated a corpse, dirt and maggots clinging on to the bloodstained clothes and mushy skin. A faint purple glow emanates from the eye sockets, barely visible around the glassy, lifeless eyes that are forced open by their controller. Despite her disgust, she’s intrigued by the magic. There’s a certain grace in the way the necromancer moves her arms, swaying the corpse ever so gently across the earthen ground. Her movements are smooth and rehearsed as contrasted with the shambling of her corpses. It’s reminiscent of a dance; a harrowing and disturbing dance. Another appreciable trait was her ability to replicate the actions of the deceased town member she controls. The necromancer re-enacted the fierce and violent stabs of the serial killer, hitting the vital spots that made her victim bleed out to their demise, wrapping it up with her telltale maniacal laughter that was buried with her when she was executed. She knows how to fire the mafioso’s gun, complete with his signature eagle-eye marksmanship even as a rotting corpse long forgotten by his mafia. She replicates the consigliere’s investigative talent, albeit much louder and less stealthy than when he was alive, pinpointing the role of her chosen target. Often, she asks the necromancer how she knows how to replicate her victims’ actions, to which she responds with either a ramble about how the brains of corpses are borderline functional with her magic and the reliance of muscle memory to aid her control, or a simple shrug (though she recalls one instance where the necromancer laughed and said she knew the vigilante’s firing habits because one of his bullets rests in her shoulder).

The graveyard is a peaceful place, perfect for a date if you were to ask the necromancer. It’s quiet, with the light breeze that rustled the leaves of nearby trees providing ambient noise. Aside from the occasional grieving town member, it was empty. However, the medium saw things differently. It felt insensitive to her to be sharing intimate moments near the deceased that despised them for their supernatural abilities. Voices of deceased town members were more clear in the graveyard, she never felt relaxed there. Instead, the two opted to spend their days together at the town’s local diner. Business was slow there, the barstools at the counter only being occupied by the executioner’s young daughter, her legs dangling far above the floor. Over milkshakes and freshly made hash browns, the two would discuss various topics, ranging from gossip about their fellow factions’ members, to deep spiritual ventures and how it connects to the afterlife. But no amount of diner dates could match the serenity and joy of their walks through the town’s bordering forest.

The forest is composed of dark towering trees, with rays of sunlight piercing through the roof of leaves and illuminating the shadowy surroundings. The duo would walk across layers of fallen leaves and branches on the forest floor, interrupting the bliss with occasional bits of chatter. Both would collect various trinkets they found along their walks. The necromancer knew the medium’s favorite objects were smooth pebbles and tiny flowers that sprouted along long-forgotten, rain-beaten pathways, and picked up as many of these as she could, along with bones of deceased wildlife for herself. When she handed the medium her findings, she would smile. Her smile lit up her face, and for a moment it didn’t look like the dead were slowly wearing her down. She looked alive. The necromancer feels the corners of her own mouth curl into a slight smile, her neutral gaze softening into compassion. The medium stuffed her gifts in her pockets, already overflowing with rocks and interesting beetles she found. And during the exchange of gifts, their hands would touch once more, cold meeting colder, and both of their hearts would melt.

**Author's Note:**

> Wasn't sure how to really wrap this up, hopefully it turned out well. Thanks for reading!


End file.
